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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956747">Cup of Joe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/extrasystem/pseuds/extrasystem'>extrasystem</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempt at Humor, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:22:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956747</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/extrasystem/pseuds/extrasystem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving proves to be more difficult than you had thought. Mostly for Steve.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers &amp; Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cup of Joe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>layla (me) practices dialogue to 'get good at it'</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Really?" There’s a pause, your blank face peering at Steve’s unimpressed frown and arched brow. You should pluck them soon. "A cup o’ joe?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Your demeanour changes suddenly, face scrunching at the term and defensive at the accusation. His eyes have shifted down into the black thermos in his hand, raising it to smell the warm tingles of caffeine and hot cocoa. You leap forward as a feeble attempt to grasp the hot metal, but the stacked layer of moving boxes limits your movement; Steve’s line of sight fits back to the roll of your eyes and huffed breath as he tucks the beverage behind him and away from you.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You can call it coffee, old man." Your hand blindly searches the area beneath your knees for a cardboard box to sit on and cross your arms like a pouting child. Your soldier merely snorts and twists the cap back on, setting it on the granite counter to his right. Stupid, smart, dumb, <em>nosey</em> Steve. You look at the running shoes on your feet, mumbling, "Should’a just lied."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He moves around the pile of boxes labelled '<em>kitchen'</em> to kneel in front of you, smiling softly. A calloused hand thumbs at the dip in your knee through your faded sweats and, "Would’ve smelled it off you anyway. Who else adds more cocoa powder than actual coffee?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Like… like half the population. I don’t know."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Uh-huh."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the umpteenth time this afternoon, you sigh and lean into the hand that cradles your cheek. Blue, vibrant jewels of sapphire with gentle rings of charcoal stare into your own and your bratty attitude dissipates into the cool autumn air. Everlastingly patient, it seems. Your own flare of cerulean stirs in your chest and a guilty grimace finds itself on your face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"M'sorry, Steve," You whisper. The ends of his lips tug upwards in a way that he’s only done with you — <em>for</em> you. "I’ll start unpacking the bedroom."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Okay, honey."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You can’t help but preen at the pet name and shrug your shoulders when he chuckles at your shifting gaze, away from his foolishly, handsome face. Steve helps tug you onto your feet with an exaggerated '<em>umph', </em>silenced by your narrowed glare. You wave his hands away as you step upstairs with the railing in your right hand to his relief. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the top of the stairs, you hear a, "Thank you, darling." You don’t bother looking back, a middle finger pointed somewhere down the flight of carpeted steps. His breathy laughter forces a besotted grin that touches the sides of your cheeks while you continue further through the beige hallway and into the master bedroom. The pair of you had decided on grey walls and a scarlet rug that expands across the floor, hiding the carpet underneath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You shake your head, quietly laughing at Steve’s question. "<em>What’s the point of a carpet… on </em>another<em> carpet?"</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"<em>Aesthetic, Stevie," </em>You had argued in the middle of a row of hanging rugs, most larger than the size of your bathroom. His eyebrows raised and he decided you knew more about design than he did. You didn’t. Not really, anyways.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A brown box with <em>'BEd'</em> carved in red marker sat at the end of the bare mattress. You cringed at Steve’s writing and the unfortunate 'd' that you bore witness to. A yellow X-ACTO knife rested on the nightstand and you grabbed it, remembering his warnings of cutting away from your chest, much to your annoyance. Inside were soft bedding covers that had caught your eye as you had pushed your cart to the checkout area a couple of weeks ago. With an abrupt burst of motivation, you tore the tape from the casing and spread out the pieces of silk on the mattress in an orderly manner.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A laboured huff later, you hitched the end of one corner and cautiously tugged to cover the mattress in a pretty cream. The rest of the chore was completed rather quickly, if you say so; the only complication being your fogged brain declaring that a pillowcase was missing, causing a bubbling shout for Steve to be subdued after your realization. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Stupid, smart, dumb, <em>blind</em> brain. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Your success was swiftly celebrated, hopping into the bed with the feel of freshly-washed sheets and the smell of lemony detergent. A sharp '<em>ping’</em> broke through the muffled silence of Steve’s footsteps downstairs and you grasped for your phone to reply to the message. It’d probably be fine if you took a break. Steve’s a big boy — surely he could handle some boxes on his own.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <strong>
    <span class="s1">///</span>
  </strong>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"What are you doing?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sky’s a bit darker, highlighted by the sun falling below the horizon and colouring the children's playground set in the backyard a muted gold. It’s the same inside the house, the difference being the lump in the middle of the bed and your wide eyes underneath the duvet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oops.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You sit back against the headboard and muster your best smile — all toothy and crinkling at your eyes. "Taking a break?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Steve groans your name, head hanging forward when he notices the mountain of unopened packages in the bedroom still. And, <em>oh god,</em> there’s even more he spots through the cracked doors of the closet and bathroom. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Is this all you’ve done?" He asks, hoping you went around and did the other rooms when you decided the master was too much of a challenge. Your arms open wide, a cozy invitation into your embrace and a distraction from the topic of conversation. He pads onto the bed and slumps on your chest, regardless. Steve pecks your exposed skin at your sternum and mutters, "You’re killin’ me, sweetheart."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Sorry."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"No, you’re not."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A sparkling laugh pushes itself out of your throat and you thread your hands through his hair that curls at the nape of his neck. The house is silent, save for the beat of your hearts slowly aligning themselves to a rhythmic thump. It’s nice — a stark difference from the early morning and the stress of moving into a new home, even with the help of Sam and Bucky. Though, truthfully, they may have made the task more difficult than it should have been from their bickering and playful jabs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"What are you smilin’ at?" Your soldier asks, light blue tracing your face in slow measures and fingers crawling under your sweater, thumbing the edge of your bralette. He’s a sight that rivals the appearance of a solar eclipse or the Aurora Borealis and you can’t help but bite at your lower lip in an attempt to memorize the man in front of you. He has long eyelashes that you envied at first, a pointed nose and gentle wrinkles in his forehead. Lovely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Nothin’."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Steve opens his pretty, pink mouth to retort when the soft thrums of a drum cut the air. He rolls off you and onto his side, taking your phone from under the pillow and turning on the screen to see the artist and song in question. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Hey!" You yelp, reaching for the device and Steve lets you have it. "I was—"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has a teasing grin on his face. "<em>'Songs to Put a Baby to Sleep'</em>, huh?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In response, you sink further into the pillows engulfing you and tuck the phone in your pocket. He chuckles and tilts your chin back towards him, pressing his lips to yours. And, <em>god</em>, you shouldn’t melt into the mattress like you do after years of '<em>going steady', </em>though he strips the oxygen from your lungs and you breathe him in like you’re mad for it. You might be.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"As I was saying before I was interrupted, I was looking for lullabies to add to the playlist," The explanation rolls off your tongue, slightly breathy. "I got distracted from the whole… <em>unpacking</em> thing."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Steve moans like a man in pain at the mention of chores he’ll be doing for the rest of the week and hides his face in your neck, hooking his leg between yours. You trace the freckles on his face with your finger and kiss his chin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Forgive me?" You request, a sweet lift of your voice and your other hand entangles itself with one of Steves. You bring the mess of hands lower, past your ribcage and down your abdomen. His breath hitches and your cheeks ache from grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Forgive us?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"S’not fair," He says, muffled against your skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You laugh, hands holding the small bump that can still be hidden with a sweater and leggings. Nine weeks, three more until the first trimester becomes the second. Less nausea and ache, more relief and excitement for the swirl of life beneath your skin. A baby. <em>Your </em>baby. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I guess you could go back to unpacking," You suggest, watching Steve lift his head and remove the covers to stare at your round belly. He leans down, pressing his mouth to your bellybutton and flutters his eyes shut with a sigh. "<b>Or, you know, you can not be boring and help me </b>find more songs for the baby."</span>
  <b></b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He scoffs at that, saying something along the lines of, "Need to get the house ready for the baby." Steve’s head perks and a mischievous glint makes you eye him suspiciously, backing away to watch him. "Or, <em>babies</em>."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Oh my god, why would you say that?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Babies. Plural. More than one, <em>at </em>once. You shiver at the thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He leaves you like that, pondering the possibility of more than one kid under your roof and tucked under the duvet. Steve parts with a light kiss and grins boyishly, out of the room not a second too long.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Fine," You shout through the open door, "maybe the baby’ll like some Cardi B, then."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You hear the stomping before you see him, calling from a few feet outside and, "<em>No—!"</em></span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i was very tempted to name this cardi b</p></blockquote></div></div>
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